


Absolution

by ShepardCommander



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShepardCommander/pseuds/ShepardCommander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chantry has been destroyed. The First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander are both dead. Hawke must deal with the stresses of the coming war that will engulf the world while sorting through her problems with Anders. She's always laughed in the face of adversity before, but no amount of laughing can make the hurt of a violated trust go away. But what can she do? She loves him. DISCONTINUED. MOVING TO "COMPLETE" STATUS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Chantry was in ruins.

Kirkwall was burning.

Innocents were dying.

The First Enchanter and the Knight Commander were dead, undone by their own ideals.

And she, by some miracle of the Maker, had survived.

Marian Hawke inhaled deeply, the scent of burning flesh, blood, and waste tickling her nose. It was a nauseating smell, and if it hadn’t been something she was already used to, she would have been bent over emptying the contents of her stomach.

The world was swimming before her very eyes, each rock and pebble on the path before her highlighted in great detail. She could see everything but nothing at the same time, the surreal feeling of the situation still numbing her to the horrible reality. She knew it was all real, knew that Kirkwall—the _world_ —would never be the same, but she was having trouble processing it all.

Anders, desperate to end a thousand years of oppression, blowing up the Chantry and destroying all hopes of compromise. Sebastian, overcome with anger and grief at losing the Grand Cleric, threatening to return with an army and kill Anders with his own hands. Orsino, losing his mind and succumbing to the seductive call of blood magic, slain by her sword. Meredith, already on the precipice of insanity, completely losing it and being devoured by lyrium.

It was madness.

Hawke was faintly aware of Anders gasping behind her, drained by their run through what was left of Kirkwall. Her brow furrowed as her temper momentarily spiked and she bit back barbarous words. She was angry with him—unfairly perhaps, but still angry—and in shock, but there was no time to dwell on such things. There was too much at stake, too many lives that could be lost.

She had told him not to come with her, that he should stay at Isabela’s ship with Merrill and wait for the rest of them to return, but he had stubbornly refused, a fire in his amber eyes telling her that he would not leave her side. She had been too tired to try to persuade him otherwise, her sarcastic nature failing her for once, and she had simply shrugged while telling him to make sure he kept up with her.

They hadn’t spoken since.

Her breath came in short gasps as they sped through alleys and streets, dodging unnecessary fights and climbing over rubble. They had a simple mission: rescue anyone they could. Before they abandoned the city completely, Hawke wanted to make one last valiant effort to save as many as possible.

The war between the templars and the mages had spread to the rest of the city, apostates coming to the aid of their brethren and mage sympathizers either engaging the templars or being slaughtered by them when they resisted arrest.

Maleficarum, many of them once level-headed mages that had opposed blood magic, had sprung up around the city as guards that had sided with the templars tried to corral them. People that had nothing to do with the conflict were being sucked in as well; the lunacy was impossible to escape.

Considering the amount of fighting Anders and she had already been through and the emotional stress they’d endured while waiting to see whether or not she’d run him through with her blade, it was astonishing that either one of them was still standing let alone running.

The screams of the damned and dying surrounded the warrior and she swallowed hard, her keen blue eyes searching the destruction of the city— _her_ city—for anything or anyone.

This was worse than the Qunari invasion had been.

Her two-handed sword, the Hawke’s Key, was clutched tightly in her hands as she ran. Her fingers were cramping but she refused to let it go or rest for a moment. There was no time to stop, no time to think or even breathe.

She vaguely remembered telling her companions to retreat to the docks, Anders, Varric, Aveline, Bethany, Isabela, Fenris, and Merrill all hot on her heels as they ran like demons newly escaped from the fade. Cullen had let them go, the templars all backing away slowly as she had glared them down, the intense battle with Meredith having brought the berserker inside her to life. She had been ready to fight to her last breath if need be, but fortunately for her and her ragtag group, that had not been necessary.

She could still taste the blood in her mouth, could still feel the excitement pounding through her veins as they had fled, her mind blank as her instincts took over and drove her forward. Her companions had followed her without hesitation.

Her decisions had led them all there, all except Sebastian that was, and it was now her duty to protect them. They hadn’t done anything wrong except follow her, their loyalty in her and her judgment touching her deeply.

It was she that had refused to kill Anders, it was she that had turned Sebastian and the wrath of Starkhaven upon them, it was she that had sided with the mages and dragged them all into the fray.

It was all her fault.

She didn’t regret her actions, not in the slightest, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t upset by the loss of life. No matter what side she had taken, war would have inevitably broken out. She had gone with her gut and her heart, even though Meredith had pointed out to her the countless number of times that Hawke and her crew had fought mages and reminded her that all magic users had the potential within them to turn.

Like Anders.

Hawke blinked and shook her head, driving the thought from her mind even as her heart skipped a beat within her chest. No, he hadn’t turned. He’d never use blood magic, he would never…

_But he merged his soul with a Spirit from the Fade. How is that any different?_

Every word of warning he’d ever spoken to her, every doubt he’d ever had about his own humanity pressed upon her. She had never questioned who or what he was before; he was Anders and that was all that mattered.

She could see the reasoning behind his logic, could even understand why he’d done it all. Her father had been a mage for Maker’s sake. Her sister—thank the Maker she was still alive—was a mage! And Anders himself was her lover!

Her steps quickened as the anger surged through her, giving her a temporary boost in speed. Her eyebrows were drawn tightly together, jaw clenched shut.

How could he have kept her in the dark? To spare her from taking responsibility? How much of a fool was he? Why couldn’t he have trusted her with this? Why couldn’t he have believed in her to find a better way or at least have told her what he was planning to do?

How much of a fool was _she_?

She knew that she was taking this all a bit personally, but at that moment, in her exhaustion, she couldn’t help it.

He had warned her—oh how he had warned her—but she hadn’t listened because she was Hawke and Hawke did what Hawke wanted to do.

The urge to break out in laughter while her body shook with sobs came upon her and she nearly choked.

A cry from nearby caught her attention and she turned right down an alleyway, her thoughts continuing.

They would be forever on the run, the whole lot of them. Hawke herself believed in the mages and their cause, but she knew that some of her companions did not or simply did not give a damn. But they had trusted her, loved her enough to throw away whatever chances they had at a normal life to follow her.

Bitterly smiling, Hawke reached the destination of the cries. They were coming from a man trapped beneath a broken merchant’s stall. Anders ran up beside her, poised to help her if she required it, but she was far too angry with him to accept his assistance.

Even though she was spent, she gritted her teeth, threw down her sword, and pulled up on the board trapping the man, letting out a cry as her muscles strained. The man quickly scrabbled out from beneath the piece of lumber and with a grunt she let it fall back into place.

Blood was rushing to her ears as she knelt to pick up her sword again, barely registering Anders’s words as he gave the man directions on how to get to Isabela’s ship, his hands glowing that comforting glow that they always did when he healed someone. His hands were moving over the man’s body, knitting him back together. How she longed to feel those hands on her skin again.

She closed her eyes and let herself be distracted by a memory of the day she and Anders had first become one. She remembered his gentle roughness, the desperation with which he had taken her head in his hands and kissed her until she couldn’t breathe.

A sharp, stabbing pain pulled her out of the memory, and she hissed as she looked down at her left arm. She couldn’t help the wry smirk that crossed her pale face.

It seemed that Meredith had managed to get one good blow in on her after all.

“You’re hurt.”

Anders’s concerned voice cut through the chaos and she looked at him, her eyes wide. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the man they had just saved running away, towards the docks and Isabela’s ship. A small wave of relief coursed through her, glad that they had been able to save one more life, and she smiled.

Anders frowned at her lack of concern for her own wellbeing and reached towards her. She flinched as his hands—hands that had once traced down her scar covered back, hands that had delved deep inside and lifted her to heaven, hands that had soothed and caressed her—came towards her. He stopped in his tracks, visibly hurt by her reaction.

The muscles in his face tightened, the lines in his forehead deepening. She watched as the guilt crept into his amber orbs and clogged his throat, his next words coming out as nothing more than strangled gibberish.

She silently chided herself.

This wasn’t his fault.

It was hers.

Their gazes locked, his eyes searching hers, and she felt her heart do something funny inside her chest, something that hurt.

She should have seen this coming. But she had been too blinded by her love and lust for him.

She let out a breath and closed her eyes, refusing to look at him. She couldn’t deal with this now. She was a warrior for Andraste’s sake. She was supposed to be strong, a Champion of the people of Kirkwall. She had been fine before him, had been able to move on when Carver had died, had been able to keep fighting back to the surface after losing Bethany to the Wardens. And after her mother had been killed, warped and tainted for that bloody mage’s devious needs…

She bit down hard on her lip, drawing blood.

She had been slowly slipping since that day, becoming more bitter and depressed. How could she not? Her entire family had been ripped from her. The very people she had sworn to protect, all gone or dead.

And that was why she hadn’t been able to kill him, why she never would.

“Hawke…”

Her eyes snapped open again, sharp and in focus.

This wasn’t the time for moping. This was the time to fight, to flee, to _survive_.

“Come on,” she said darkly, turning her back to him as she faced the blazing city. “We’re not done yet.”

~

Isabela was rounding up a crew to sail her ship.

Varric was gathering his earnings for them to use on their journey.

Bethany was going to save her uncle and cousin.

Aveline and Donnic had gone back to the Viscount Keep to rescue the guards that had pledged themselves to the mage cause.

Fenris was helping Isabela, keeping all threats off her back.

Merrill was guarding Isabela’s ship, helping those that came to her and killing those that meant to do the group harm.

And Sebastian….Sebastian had abandoned them all. Yet even he was more useful than Anders was or ever would be.

The mage stumbled along after Hawke as she tore through Kirkwall, trying her best to right the grievous wrong that had been thrust upon the city. No matter how many they saved it would never wash the crimson from his hands, his hands that had delved into her chest and ripped out her still beating heart.

Anders felt as if he could die right then and there. He didn’t need a dagger to do the trick; Hawke’s disappointing stare, the hollowness with which she had regarded him in those moments following the Chantry’s destruction, and the sorrow with which she had spared him.

She had had every right to kill him. She had had every right to spill his blood. He had killed innocent and holy people. He had killed the Grand Cleric. He had used Hawke, had banked on her trusting him and doing what he’d asked.

And she had.

He closed his eyes, still remembering her questioning face as he had asked her to distract the Grand Cleric. He remembered Sebastian’s wondering eyes as the two had left the Chantry, seeing the perplexing look on Hawke’s face and mirrored it in his own.

Her love for him had taken its toll, her heart had been broken. She had shared with him everything she was, had given him her body, mind, and soul. He had tried to as well, he really had, but it was something that he had been incapable of doing. Even now that all was said and done he couldn’t.

And it killed him.

He had done what had had to be done, had understood that he needed to be the cog that got the machine going, and yet…

He felt his throat tighten uncomfortably, all the misery and pain he’d endured in the last decade of his life not even coming close to the agony he felt at that moment.

What he had done…he didn’t regret it. Not one bit. It was the change the city—no, the _world—_ needed.

He didn’t regret setting in motion the events that would lead to the freedom of the mages. It had had to be done. The injustice of the Circle had to be made known; the citizens of Kirkwall, of Ferelden, of Starkhaven, Orlais, of every great city and nation on the face of Thedas had to have their eyes open to the horrors mages were expected to endure, of the freedoms that those blessed—and yes, they were _blessed_ —by magic had stripped from them.

Just…why had he had to fall in love and complicate the matter?

He could never give his mind, his body, or his soul to Hawke because he was no longer just Anders, apostate mage. No, he was Anders and Justice and Vengeance, an abomination. He had changed the very core of his being, had violated the very laws of nature.

And now he was paying for it.

His amber eyes traced along Hawke’s form, noting her slowed movements. He had seen blood decorating the chainmail of her champion armor, and while that sort of injury wouldn’t kill her, it couldn’t be allowed to go untended. She was a hell of a woman, of a human really, but even she had her limits. Blood loss and infection could take her just like anyone else. An arrow to the head, an axe to her throat, a knife to her heart, an arch of lightning striking her core, and she would be gone forever.

His chest constricted tightly under his black robes, his lungs burning and heart racing. He needed to slow down and take in a breath, but he dared not slow his pace lest he lose Hawke to the destruction around them.

_I should have trusted her._

He had been a healer and now he wasn’t even good for that. The way she had backed away from him when he had approached…he had certainly made a mess of things.

She had agreed unhesitatingly to be a fugitive with him and loved him despite what he’d done, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t upset. She wanted to keep him alive, wanted to stay at his side, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t also mad.

_Hawke…_

He hadn’t always been this way, so moody and temperamental, and he wished that she had been able to see him as he once had been, back when he had served under the Warden-Commander of Ferelden.

His lips quirked in a smirk as a memory of that life that seemed to have happened so long ago came back to him unbidden.

His phylactery had just been destroyed and he was free, freer than he ever had been before. The world had seemed new to him, every sight, sound, and smell fresh and bright. Yet, for all his cheer, the fact that there were still so many trapped and doomed to a life in the Circle had upset him. The part inside of him that was a decent human being refused to let him fully celebrate the moment, spoiling what he’d dreamed of for years.

 _“All I want_  is a pretty  _girl_ , a decent meal, and the  _right to shoot lightning at fools_ ,” he had grumbled to the Warden-Commander. “Is that so much to ask?”

He had regretted the words the second they had left his mouth, realizing that they could be misconstrued as flirting. The Warden-Commander was happily married to King Alistair for Maker’s sake; she was the Queen of Ferelden! She had killed the Archdemon!

Instead of anger or reproach, she had raised one red eyebrow at him, a gleam of mischief in her green eyes, and he had breathed a sigh of relief.

“That seems reasonable to me,” she had laughed.

He had joined her in relief, the trepidation he’d felt washing away in an instant. The rest of that day had been glorious, as he had been able to put the thought of the mages’ plight from his mind, and he’d gone about chasing down criminals and preforming strange deeds for a group of alleged orphans.

He sighed.

If only Hawke had been able to see him as he had been then. Happier, lighter, sassy and sarcastic like her, _younger_. Perhaps she would have even been able to save him from his fate as host to a Fade Spirit…

He shook his head sadly at the thought.

Maybe. Perhaps. If only. All unknowns that would do him no good now.

“Hawke! Anders!”

Merrill’s voice cut through his thoughts and he blinked, realizing that they had arrived back at the place where Isabela’s ship was docked. He looked around at their surroundings, trying to bring himself back to the reality that he had created.

The sky was still lit up with red and orange flames, the moon hidden behind clouds. The air was still thick with the stench of death, the cries of the lost still filling what would normally be quiet. The waters were angry with waves as ships tried to leave the doomed city as fast as possible.

_Are you happy now? You caused this. You and that blighted Spirit._

“Have the others returned Merrill?” Hawke asked the elf.

“Yes. No. Some of them,” she stuttered nervously. Her large eyes were looking everywhere, peering into the shadows for enemies.

Hawke’s shoulders slumped and Anders could only imagine the expression on her face as he came up behind her. She probably looked exhausted and worn out, stretched thin and laid bare, her emotions raw and stinging.

“Who’s here?”

“Oh, um, Isabela and Fenris,” Merrill responded quickly. “Not sure where the others are. Probably all safe. I hope. They have to be.”

Hawke’s gloved hand gripped the small elf tightly on the shoulder. “They’ll be fine. They’re just running a little late, that’s all. No need to worry.”

Merrill smiled weakly. “Yes, you’re right of course. I’m…” she paused, as if searching for words, a light crease appearing on her brow. “I’m sorry, Hawke. About what’s happening. I know it’s not my fault, but still…” She let out a breath and looked down at her twined hands. “Kirkwall. Everything. It’s horrible.”

“It’s not that bad,” Hawke joked, surprising Anders. “Nothing a fresh coat of paint and a few dozen mops won’t fix. We can just sweep all the bodies under a rug. No one will ever know.”

Merrill frowned. “It would have to be a large rug. A very large rug.”

Hawke sighed and shook her head, putting her hands on her hips. “Oh Merrill. Never change.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, so no need to worry,” Merrill responded seriously, which caused Hawke to burst out in laughter. The elf just blinked and tilted her head to the side, lost once again. “What did I say?”

Anders couldn’t help but smile at the little exchange, his heart warmed by the scene. He was glad that Hawke’s compassion, buried beneath her seemingly indifferent exterior and clever words, was still intact. Her laugh was strained and had a haggard quality to it, but he was grateful to hear it regardless.

The Hawke he had fallen in love with was still there beneath all the dirt and mud, valiantly fighting the current in the ocean of blood he had willingly drowned her in. Even if she had lost herself to the waves and gone under, he would have swam out after her and dragged her to shore, pushing his lips to hers and breathing life back into her, because she was his, his Bright Light of Kirkwall. She had given him this second chance at life and he was bound to her, for better or worse.


	2. Chapter 2

 

“Come on! Put your backs into it! We’ll never set sail at the pace you’re going! The templars won’t stay off us for long! Get moving or I’ll gut you myself!”

Isabela’s strong voice rang loud and clear, discernible even above the clanking armor of the guardsmen and the shouts of terrified refugees.

Varric deftly stepped aside as a crewmember bustled past him, taking care to not bump into anyone with the bag of stuffed valuables strapped to his back. He felt a bit off balance with the heavy load in back and Bianca in his arms, unable to move at even half of his normal speed. Perspiration dotted his brow and he could feel his chest hair sticking to him, his clothes drenched in sweat as he moved and dodged the frantic humans darting around him.

It wasn’t like he was in bad shape—far from it in fact—but with all the fires, battles, and miles he had covered that night, he felt like he was allowed to secrete some bodily fluids. As long as it wasn’t blood or piss, he was fine.

Taking in a deep breath and letting it out, he maneuvered his way through the chaos, keeping an eye out for his friends. The storyteller inside of him was already making up a fantastic tale to accompany what was playing out before him. He already knew what was going to be recounted later, what outlandish almost-truths he would lay upon the already exciting event. The templars would be storming the boat of course, trying to find the fearless warrior woman that had defied the lyrim-crazed Knight Commander. The sexy yet deadly pirate captain would be running about her ship like lightning, making sure all was secure and ready to go while the immovable Captain of the Guard singlehandedly pushed the templars back. Of course Hawke would be in there somewhere too—this was her story after all—but first he had to find her…

So far he’d managed to catch sight of Daisy, Rivaini, and the Elf. He had been relieved to find them all ok; Daisy had greeted him with an equally relieved smile as he had boarded the ship, Rivaini had been dancing about her ship, clearly in her element, and the Elf had been making sure Rivaini’s orders were followed to the letter.

Varric looked around again, trying to find the rest of their motley crew—Hawke, Sunshine, Blondie, and Aveline. He didn’t worry for their safety, but he was on the verge of admitting that he was growing a trifle curious as to their whereabouts. He certainly hoped they weren’t off doing something interesting without him; he hated missing out on interesting things.

 “All right men, this is your last chance. If you decide to remain in Kirkwall and serve the templars, so be it. I will not hold it against you nor will I slay you where you stand. It is your right to decide your duty and I cannot force you to follow me where you do not want to go.”

The volume and force behind Aveline’s words matched that of Isabela’s, catching Varric’s attention, his ears directing his head in the direction of the red-haired captain. Her husband Donnic stood beside her, and while the dwarf could not see Aveline’s expression, he could see the grimness of Donnic’s.

The templars had assumed control of the guard from what Varric had heard in the streets. It was no secret that Meredith had been planning to bring the guards under her control, and it seemed that Aveline’s decision to side with the mages had at least granted the insane Knight Commander that triumph. Of course, she was dead so she wasn’t around to enjoy the victory, but it was a victory nonetheless.

Varric paused, watching to see if any of the guardsmen would leave. He half expected at least a dozen or so to go, and he wouldn’t have blamed them if they did. He knew that it was stupid to be on the side opposing Hawke’s, but the war had expanded and was bigger than just her now. There were other fantastic fighters such as she; he wasn’t naïve enough to believe otherwise. Hawke was Hawke, and Hawke was a human that could only do so much. He was her friend and embellished her accomplishments, but he knew perhaps better than anyone that beneath his fantastic lies there was a body that had been broken and skewered on the Arishok’s sword, a woman that had just had her heart torn to pieces, a soul that was desperately trying to do what was right.

Hawke was a fearsome and tireless warrior and he had no doubt that she’d put her all into this, but could she stand against the might of Thedas? How many would sympathize with the mages? She was no god, she was no supernatural being. She was flesh and bone, fallible and flawed.

Siding with the mages at this point would look suicidal, even if Hawke had struck a great blow against their oppressors. There were other Circles, other cities, other countries…He would be with her to the bitter end, regardless, but he could not expect others to have the same amount of faith and trust in her that he did.

Much to his surprise, the guardsmen all straightened their backs and raised their heads, indicating that they would not leave their Captain’s side.

“Thank you.”

Varric barely caught the tremble in Aveline’s words, her breath hitching at the loyalty of her men. The tender moment did not last for long however and just as soon as it had appeared, it vanished like the morning dew on a hot summer day.

“Secure the refugees below deck,” Aveline barked, becoming the Captain once again. “Search for any troublemakers and detain them. Dismissed.”

The guards sounded off before disbanding, moving quickly to fulfill her orders. Donnic moved his head slightly, caught Varric’s eye, then nodded at his wife before going off after her men, leaving the two old friends alone.

“What do you need, Varric?” she asked, not turning around, instead moving her head so that she was staring at the troubled night sky.

“That was touching,” Varric commented wryly as he walked over to her.

Aveline looked down at him at last, her features hard and spattered with blood. Her face had an unusual pallor that made her freckles stand out, her eyes containing a worried, haggard look in them.

“Yes, it was.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

She sighed, heaving her armored shoulders while hanging her head. “I want to stay, but I know that I cannot. The templars have assumed control of the guard and will soon have all of Kirkwall under their rule. I do not like running from a fight, but I know that this is not a fight that can be won.”

“Like Ostagar?” Varric ventured.

Aveline paused before responding. “Yes, like Ostagar.”

She knew as well as everyone else that if they did not leave it would mean death for them all. If they stayed, probably many more would die. They would save more lives by leaving, taking as many mages and mage-sympathizers with them as they could. As long as they remained, there would be bloodshed, more innocents caught in the war as the warring sides took to the streets and began the task of dividing and conquering, civilians becoming a number on a ledger that accounted casualties and nothing more.

The ruthless calculus of war.

“At least Rivaini seems to be enjoying herself,” Varric chuckled, watching as the Rivain darted around her ship, barking orders. There was a fire in her eyes that he had never seen before, an excitement and bounce in her steps that said she was truly alive for the first time in years. “I’m afraid she’ll take flight any second now.”

Aveline scowled. “She would be doing us all a favor if she did.”

“Aw, you don’t really mean that.”

She raised an irritated eyebrow. If Varric hadn’t been holding Bianca, he would have held up his hands in a submissive gesture. Instead he had to settle for more laughing.

“I’m just kidding, though you know I’m right. All joking aside though, you seen Hawke?” He nodded his head to the bag on his back. “I stopped by her place and picked up some of her family trinkets. Figured Sunshine and she would appreciate it.”

Aveline’s brow creased. “I have not seen Hawke or Bethany.”

“Seen Blondie then? He’d know where Hawke is.”

Aveline’s eyes darkened at the mention of the mage, but she just shook her head. “I’m sure they’re around somewhere. Hard to keep track of anyone in this chaos.” She let out a breath and made a quick survey, the lines in her face deepening when she couldn’t find the familiar raven haired woman. “Perhaps Hawke went to assist her sister in finding their uncle and cousin?”

“Perhaps,” Varric shrugged. “Don’t worry, I’ll find ‘em. Just gotta drop off the goods somewhere no one can get their thieving hands on them.”

Aveline scoffed and gave him a reproachful look. “I’m not worried. Hawke can take care of herself. So can Bethany.”

Varric grinned as he tromped off, laughing. “Sure you’re not. I know you better than that, Aveline. I’m pretty observant you know; I’m not all stories and thick, gorgeous chest hair.”

The Captain just rolled her eyes.

/

“What the bloody hell has your sister gotten us into this time?”

Bethany bit down on her tongue, refraining from giving her uncle the verbal lashing she desired to. Sure, he was a bit of an arse—ok, maybe a _huge_ arse—but it wasn’t the time for petty squabbling. They could do that later, when buildings weren’t toppling over on them and crazed mages weren’t shooting lightning at them.

There was blood on her Grey Warden garb, the result of having gotten careless and getting too close to a fight. Luckily Charade was with them, and she was one of the finest archers Bethany had ever seen—barring Varric and Nathaniel of course. Even Gamlen had taken his prized Wallop Mallet along for protection. It was now chipped and stained a brilliant crimson color—something Bethany was sure he would complain about later when the threat of death wasn’t imminent.

“Father,” Charade spoke up loudly, “perhaps it is best that we just follow Beth—“

“ _No_ ,” he said forcefully, cutting his daughter off. The sound of footsteps slowing and then stopping made Bethany halt in her tracks and turn around. Her uncle looked like he was about to be ill, a sickly pallor to his skin as his clothes dampened with his sweat. He wasn’t used to running for his life. “No, I will not.”

“What?” Charade asked, stunned. She was the least winded out of the group, so Bethany let her do the talking as she caught her breath. “What do you mean no?”

Gamlen waved around at the burning scenery. “ _This_. This _madness_. It has something to do with Hawke, I just know it.”

“Father—“

“No, Charade,” he nearly shouted. “I am tired of letting your cousin do as she pleases and interfere with my life.” He glared at Bethany. “You can’t just come into _my_ house and tell _me_ to leave! Kirkwall is my home! Always has been! It was Leandra who packed up and left so willingly, but I will not let myself be driven away. You haven’t even given us an explanation as to what the hell is going on!”

“War has broken out between the Circle and the templars. Marian allied with the mages. The First Enchanter and the Knight Commander are dead,” Bethany said in a rush, her blood boiling in her veins. A frown had crossed her normally relaxed face, and she could feel her free hand clenching at her side as she stalked over to Gamlen. “She told me to find you. To save you.”

A sort of silence filled the air as her uncle and cousin mulled over her words, both of them distraught as the realization of what Marian’s actions meant for them dawned. Of course it wasn’t really quiet, not with a war being fought, but there was a hush that fell over the family.

“So that’s what this is all about,” Gamlen breathed at last. “Those damned mages and the templars.”

Bethany didn’t even flinch. “Yes. And that’s why we need to leave. _Now._ ”

Instead of acquiescing and following her—which she hadn’t really expected him to do—he bristled with anger.

“That apostate boy!” he spat venomously. “I knew he was trouble! He had something to do with that explosion we all heard, didn’t he? The one that left the Chantry in ruins? That was magic, I know it!”

“Father…” Charade touched her father’s arm gently, looking to Bethany for help.

“He was only doing what he thought was right!” Bethany returned defensively. In all honesty, she was equally horrified at what her sister’s lover had done, but if her sister—her sister who had taken this man, a possessed apostate, into her bed, her heart, her very soul—could find it in herself to forgive him and let him live, than so could she.

She was still a bit mad at Anders of course, but she couldn’t help but find a bit of indignation within her at her uncle’s words, and not just because Anders was Marian’s love. Anders had been fighting for the mages after all, for _her_.

There was a time when she and Marian had been close, and even though they had drifted apart, Bethany’s love and admiration twisting into a vile hate after her sister had saved her life—after _Anders_ had saved her life—they were starting to repair the damage that had been done. In retrospect, Bethany had been foolish in blaming her sister for what had happened to her. It hadn’t been Marian’s fault, but it had helped to blame her to ease the pain.

“Doing what he thought was…are you…what in Andraste’s…” Gamlen’s face contorted, his eyes bulging as he dragged a hand through his greying hair. “Are you _kidding_ me?” he finally cracked. “The man is insane!”

“Perhaps, but that is a discussion for another time.”

“At least tell me that your sister killed the sodding bastard,” Gamlen growled, and Bethany was surprised to see a bit of—what was it? Protectiveness? Righteous fury?—flare in his raging eyes. “He doesn’t deserve to live after what he did to the people of Kirkwall. To what he did to your sister.”

Bethany blinked, stunned. Was her uncle showing a hint of concern as to her sister’s wellbeing? They were family, and it was only natural for family to be concerned about each member, but Gamlen was, well, Gamlen.

Before she could respond, Hawke’s voice came from behind her.

“On a list of things to do during a war, stopping to chat is high on my list of priorities.”

Bethany turned to face her sister, relieved to see her. “Marian!”

Anders was right behind her of course, but Bethany tried not to grace him with her attention.

The warrior woman smiled roguishly. “Missed me? I was only gone for a few hours. Those years in the Wardens must have been torturous for you.”

Bethany smiled and opened her mouth to speak, but halted mid-breath as Gamlen rushed by her and grabbed the feathery jacket that Anders wore, his aged body shaking with rage as his hands dug deep into the fabric the taller man wore. His Wallop Mallet had fallen to the ground next to Charade, and she picked it up quickly, not betraying a hint as to her true emotions.

“YOU!” he yelled in the mage’s face. “You are the cause of all this! You have brought death to Kirkwall! You have destroyed my home!”

Anders looked back at the man, eerily calm. There was a touch of blue to his eyes, but it faded quickly. “I know.”

Gamlen sputtered. “You…you _know_?”

Anders closed his eyes slowly, swallowing hard. “Yes.”

“You have used my niece for your own nefarious purposes; you have ruined all she has striven to rebuild!”

“I know.”

Gamelan was growing more frantic by each passing second, the veins in his forehead sticking out like angry tree roots. “You are a murderer! A monster!”

“I know.”

“You know!” Gamlen laughed manically, giving him a shake. “You _know_! Is that all you can bloody well say? Answer me, damn you!”

“Enough!” Marian shouted, grabbing her uncle’s arm roughly, the muscles in her face pulled taught. The blood red mark on her face contrasted sharply with her pale skin and icy blue eyes. “We do not have time for this now! You can wallop him with your mallet all you’d like later, when we’re safe on board Isabela’s ship.”

Gamlen’s breathing was heavy and labored, his tongue traveling across his lips to wipe away the spit. Anders’s eyes slipped open to coolly regard him, his demeanor one of grim acceptance of their uncle’s unbridled hatred. Gamlen looked at Marian, then Anders, then back to Marian again, his mind caught between wanting to beat the shit out of the mage and getting his family to safety. Marian’s hand remained clenched on his sleeve, her usually confident eyes now desperate and pleading with him.

Bethany could see the pain etched in her sister’s face; she couldn’t lose Gamlen and Charade. She couldn’t lose what was left of their family. There had been so much death, so much loss; did there have to be more?

“Father, please…”

It was Charade that broke through to him, and Bethany let out a thankful breath as her cousin tenderly laid a hand on her father’s shoulder, causing him to relax his grip on Anders. He stepped back, still giving the possessed man the evil eye, as if he didn’t trust him not to turn into a horrible abomination and rain misery upon them all.

Hawke let out a laugh. “Fantastic. Let’s beat each other senseless later. I call first dibs on the mallet. Now, if you’ll just follow me…” She waved her hand and turned to leave, Bethany following suit along with Charade and Anders.

“I’m not going.”

The four paused, all glancing back at the older man.

“Huh?” Hawke blinked, walking over to their uncle. “Not sure if you noticed, uncle, but Kirkwall isn’t the safest place to be right now, especially since you’re a blood relative of the Champion—who happened to side with the mages. You’re a target for the templars. You can’t stay here.”

Gamlen looked over Hawke’s shoulder, his eyes misty. The anger was still there, but there was something else, something that gave Bethany a sense of finality. She didn’t like it.

“I know.”

“Then you know that you’ll be hunted, captured, tortured, killed?” Hawke pressed. “Not exactly a pleasant way to go. Unless you’re into that sort of thing. Then by all means, go ahead. Whatever does it for you.”

He shook his head, exasperated. “Please be serious for once.”

Hawke’s lower lip trembled and her nostrils flared. “You want serious? Fine. I’ll give you serious. I can’t just leave you here to face that fate alone. You’re my bloody _uncle_ for Maker’s sake. My own flesh and blood. I can’t…I can’t…” Even though she didn’t speak the words, Bethany could see them on her lips. _I can’t fail you_.

“I’m not leaving my home, Marian,” he said firmly. “I can’t.”

“Father!”

Gamlen looked at his daughter and smiled sadly. He enveloped her in a hug as she walked over to him, holding her tightly to his chest as he ran a hand through her long brown curls. “I’m sorry. I wish I could, but…I just can’t. I’m too old and this is my _home_.”

“Gamlen—“ Marian stepped towards him.

“Would you have left Ferelden, had it not been for your mother and siblings?” he asked quietly, meeting his niece’s eyes. “Would you have left your country to the machinations of those that were destroying it, had it been just you?”

Marian hesitated, obviously seeing what he was getting at but not wanting to admit it. “Charade—“

“Is a grown woman,” he said shakily, looking down at the daughter he’d only begun to get to know. “And she’ll be fine without me. She was before, after all.”

Charade’s eyes widened, tears in them. “That’s not true!”

He laughed and trembled as emotion surged through him. “Yes it is, and you know it. I can’t make this journey with you. I’d only slow you down, and I’m too crotchety to start over someplace new. Kirkwall is my home.”

Hawke put her hands defiantly on her hips and tilted her head, her dark eyebrows drawn in a frown. “Living is better than dying. I’ve been on the run all my life. It’s not nearly as bad as it seems, I assure you. Don’t you want to live? I don’t get it.”

“I think you do.”

Bethany’s sister considered his words briefly, an inscrutable look passing over her. Anders stared at her curiously, the first emotion Bethany had seen from him since blowing up the Chantry. The eldest Hawke sibling look at her uncle, then out at the fiery city.

“Alright,” she said thickly after a long minute had passed by, shocking everyone, including Gamlen. They all knew how protective she had become of her blood relatives and friends—to let him go like this… “I understand.”

Gamlen sighed, closed his eyes, and let out a breath. “Thank you.” For the first time since Bethany had known him, he looked at peace. She didn’t understand what he was doing, but Marian obviously did. She made a mental note to ask her later.

Opening his eyes again, he moved away from his daughter. There were tears in her eyes, but she was strong and refused to let them fall. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

“I know I haven’t known you for very long, Charade, but I love you. I love you with all of my heart. Please understand why I have to do this.”

She sniffed, her hands twisting into the fabric of his shirt. “I-I think I do.”

“You are strong, stronger than I have ever been. And that is why you must live and why I must do this. For my sister. For my parents. For myself.”

She nodded.

Looking at Hawke, Gamlen steeled his face, though it was obvious that he was trying not to cry. “Will you take her with you? Keep her safe?”

“Of course, Uncle.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” Hawke said unhesitatingly, heart breaking. “You have my word.”

“Thank you.”

Charade slowly untangled herself from him. Everything around the small group was on fire, screaming, crying, dying. But right now, none of that mattered. The Wallop Mallet was on the dirt next to the father-daughter pair where Charade had dropped it in her shock, and he knelt to pick it up.

“Goodbye, father.”

“Goodbye, my beautiful daughter. Maker watch over you all.”

And then, just like that, he was gone down the alleyways, back into the fray.

“Born in Kirkwall, die in Kirkwall…” Bethany heard Marian mummer as she stared at the empty spot where their uncle had been. “Perhaps that is why we are returning to Ferelden, the land of my birth…”

Bethany glanced at Anders, sharing a concerned look with him.

What did Marian mean?

/

They were running again, Bethany in the lead with Hawke taking up the rear.

Marian’s emotions were running rampant, a part of her still amazed that she had just let her uncle go. She was letting him rush to face his death, she knew this, and yet she had just let him go on his merry way. What kind of Champion was she? Strike that—what kind of _niece_ was she?

She took her bottom lip between her teeth, biting down hard.

_Damn him. Damn him and his words._

She knew why she had let him go. She knew why he had to stay here, knew that she would have stayed in Ferelden all those years ago had she not been responsible for her mother and siblings. To leave one’s homeland…it was hard. And he was right; he was old. He didn’t have the heart to leave, perhaps even lacked the courage.

_No, he isn’t lacking in courage. Not at all._

She knew what he would do if he remained, for it was what she would do. For all his talk and grumpery, he was an Amell. He would honor the memory of those that had gone before him, perhaps even do some good before he left the world forever.

This was his chance to do something for himself and she had no right to stop him.

There was a flash of white to her right—an unmistakable armor hidden beneath a green cloak—and Hawke skidded to a pause.

“Marian?” Bethany asked uncertainly from the front. “Is everything alright?”

Hawke furrowed her brow. “I’ll be right back.”

“Cousin?”

“Get to the ship. I won’t be long.”

“Hawke…” Anders said.

She glared at Anders. “Don’t follow me.”

She didn’t stick around to hear his protest, instead putting on an extra burst of speed as she sprinted away.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Isabela grinned manically, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she observed the life onboard her ship from the crow’s nest. It had been far too long since she’d had a proper crew and a decent bit of sailing. Circumstances notwithstanding, she was more than happy to return to her home, this time bringing her family with her.

Her lips calmed slightly, her fevered state cooling as the warmth and friendship Hawke had brought into her life moved her very soul. The sea had always been her home, the crashing waves the lullaby the carried her to sleep and the cries of the gulls her alarm clock in the morning. There was no place on the face of Thedas she would rather be than behind the wheel of a good ship—especially if that ship was hers—but this time around she had someone—scratch that, a load of someones—to share her special place with.

The moon managed to peek through the clouds that had been hiding its face all through the long night, illuminating the drama unfolding beneath the Rivaini. A cold breeze swept over her, carrying with it the scent of fish and salt. She closed her eyes and smiled. To some it was a smell that was horribly offensive to their sensitive nostrils, but to her, to Isabela the Fearless Pirate Captain…it was the smell of freedom.

This was her moment, her time to shine. She would be able to save them all—Hawke, Bethany, Varric, Aveline, Fenris, Merrill, and even Anders—and repay them at long last for the trouble she’d put them all through years ago. It was a debt that had been forgiven but one that troubled her still, especially when she factored in the lengths Hawke had gone to keep her from suffering the wrath of the Qunari. The women had bled for her, had endured being skewered and raised upon the Arishok’s blade.

_This satisfaction…liberation…relief…Is this how Hawke feels whenever she saves us? Whenever she saves me?_

Isabela’s eyes slipped open.

She wanted to savor the moment but knew that she could not, and with a grudging hesitation she began to search the lines of warehouses and rundown shacks for a sign of the Amell-Hawke family plus Anders. Her keen eyes quickly picked up the ragtag group heading towards her ship and she did a quick headcount.

“Bethany…Charade…Anders…” she hummed, furrowing her brow as she looked around for her missing compatriots. “No Hawke or Gamlen. Well, that can’t be good.”

“Do you see them?”

Isabela looked down at Varric. The dwarf had requested that she go up and take a gander to see where their friends were, and when she had pointed out that he had two legs and two arms and that she had seen him climb a ladder with ample skill, he had given her a look that he could have only picked up from Hawke.

“I see three of them,” she responded, glancing back at the group and squinting. “Bethany, Charade, and Anders. No sign of Hawke or Gamlen.”

Varric let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that can’t be good.”

“My thoughts exactly,” she murmured, biting her lower lip.

“Now what?” Varric asked.

Isabela snorted as she shimmied down the ladder to the deck below, letting herself drop the last several feet. “Aren’t you the dwarf with the plan?” she questioned once she had righted herself, Varric shaking his head at her display of feline grace.

The rogue dwarf twisted his mouth in a smirk. “I’m just here to look pretty, Rivaini.”

“I thought that was my job.”

“You lack the qualifications.”

“Oh?” she cocked an eyebrow curiously and put her hands on her hops.

He nodded, motioning to his chest. “Chest hair, Rivaini. Lots and lots of chest hair.”

The pirate laughed, the sound of merriment coming out strained and darker than usual. The banter between them wasn’t as lively as it normally was, the stresses of the day finally catching up and taking their toll. They had been fine until Hawke’s absence from the small team had been noted, and not for the first time Isabela realized how crucial the warrior was to their dysfunctional family. It was not her blade that made her invaluable—though it did help them when they were in tough scrapes—or her wit—though it did help lighten the mood—but simply the woman herself and everything that she was.

She was the glue, the healing salve, the rock.

“What do we do, Varric?” Isabela asked again, her voice low and tinged with anxiety. “You don’t think something…bad…happened to Hawke, do you?”

He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. “Not a chance. Half of Kirkwall—the half that isn’t in flames already—would be lit up with lightning and blue hellfire if that was the case.”

Though his words were light and jocular, there was an edge to his tone that Isabela did not miss. If something bad had happened to Hawke, Anders would have destroyed what he hadn’t already.

The muscles in her face tensed and she bit back her anger. She wasn’t upset at what he’d done per say—it was a bold move on his part and she admired his courage; she had never thought he would have had it in him to do something so rash and daring—but rather what he _hadn’t_ done, which was tell Hawke. The woman loved him for Maker’s sake, and while Isabela hadn’t been lucky in that department, Marian had been, and it absolutely infuriated the rogue that Anders had hurt her in such a way.

He had gotten Hawke to assist in small ways, which had involved them all despite his intentions of keeping them as innocent as possible. By simply being with Marian he had involved her, and how he had managed to overlook or completely ignore that fact confounded Isabela.

She would have words with him later, when they were all safe and far, far away from Kirkwall, but until that time, she would have to bite her tongue and take one for the team. Perhaps words of admonishment would seem hypocritical coming from her, considering the stunt she’d pulled a few years earlier, but she felt she had to say _something_.

“Right,” Isabela breathed, nodding her head in agreement with her fellow rogue. “So now we just have to figure out where the hell she is. Should be no problem. Kirkwall is in chaos and we have two missing people running about along with hundreds of others. Easy.”

Before Varric could respond Fenris cut in, stalking over to the two ominously.

“Bethany, Charade, and the mage approach,” he said darkly, refusing to refer to Anders by name. “There is no sign of Hawke or her uncle.”

“Then I guess we better ask Blondie where they went, eh?” Varric ventured, observing the warrior’s reaction carefully.

“I will ask Bethany where Hawke has vanished to,” Fenris said stiffly before marching away.

“I said Blondie! Bethany is Sunshine!” he called after Fenris, shaking his head when the ex-slave did not respond. He let out a cross between a moan and a laugh before looking at Isabela. “This is going to be a long trip. We might have to tie up Broody and lock him in the brig. I hope you don’t get _the itch_ , because satisfying it could very well mean the end of us all. I can see it now…” He held his hands out in a dramatic manner, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Isabela rolled her eyes and said, “Shut up,” before jogging after Fenris.

/

Sebastian felt the strain in his shoulders as he threw the last of his provisions into the small boat. Twin wet paths were carved onto his cheeks, the only evidence of the tears that had fallen as he had waded through the rubble of the Chantry.

He had a long journey ahead of him, though luckily only a small portion of it would be spent on the water. Where he was going would be faster reached by way of sea, and while the small vessel he was taking would be grossly undermanned with just him aboard, he would find a way to make it work.

“I do believe that Starkhaven is in the opposite direction. Unless you plan on going the long way around and taking the grand tour of the Free Marches, that is.”

The blue-eyed prince nearly jumped out of his skin as the familiar voice tickled his ears, the sauce and sassiness tugging at his heartstrings and nearly making him choke. He had resigned himself to the fact that the next time he heard any words leaving those ruby-red lips they would be ringing with harshness and murderous intent, something he’d been fortunate enough to never be on the receiving end until that night.

“Hawke.”

The name slipped from his mouth in a strangled whisper.

“The one and only. Well, one of two technically speaking. But who’s counting?”

Shaking his head ruefully, the royal archer turned around. Marian Hawke—the Champion of Kirkwall, lover of the murderous apostate mage—stood before him, smiling as if nothing was wrong, as if the world around them wasn’t unraveling at the edges, as if they were still friends that would be laughing together at the Hanged Man over a pint.

His eyes traveled over her body, noting with anxiety the blood staining the armor of her left arm. A stab of guilt temporarily over road his convictions and he wished that he had been there for her in whatever battles she had faced. He had abandoned her, abandoned them all. And for what?

He felt his throat tighten as his morals and convictions battled against his earthly desires. They had been friends just a few hours ago; she had been the first real friend he’d ever had, someone not bound to him through obligation or the hope of gaining a hint of wealth. She had liked him for who he was inside.

Whatever she had come across since their separation, it had taken its toll on her. She was weak, breathless, exhausted. It would be the perfect time for someone to come along and kill her—though even in this state she would put up a fight, he was sure of it—and the terrible thought of taking her down while he still had the chance briefly flitted through his mind.

He gritted his teeth and angrily shoved the contemplation to the back of his mind, ashamed. To cut her down now would be disrespectful, a heinous crime in the eyes of the Maker. Even though she had chosen to defend the apostate, which was also wrong in the eyes of the Divine, two wrongs did not make a right.

“You’re bleeding,” he finally managed to say.

“Seriously Sebastian, you won’t be getting far in this little thing,” Hawke said, ignoring him entirely as she moved past him to kick at the small boat. She huffed in amusement. “You’re not planning on marooning yourself out in the middle of the sea, are you? Because if it’s a slow death you’re looking for, I’m sure there are more convenient slow-death options available to you.” She paused, lips quirking in a smile, made all the more eerie by the flecks of crimson painting her face. “Paper cuts, for example. Lots of tiny paper cuts. Then dip yourself in lemon juice.”

He winced as he came up beside her. How on earth did she come up with those ideas?

“I have a plan, Hawke,” he said softly, trying to bring a bit of seriousness back into play. “A plan that I cannot tell you.”

The warrior shrugged and made a dismissive noise in her throat. “Plan, schman. Winging it is so much more fun. Just look where it’s gotten me.”

“Hawke,” he chastised, brow furrowing. “I’m trying to be serious.”

“I know. And that’s exactly why I’m not.” She titled her head back, eyeing him in a mysterious manner. “Being serious is no fun. Gives you premature wrinkles, or so I’ve heard.”

His temper got the better of him, the guilt from leaving her and his inability to let go of what he knew the Maker would have him do pushing him to the edge. He grabbed her shoulders roughly, his fingers tightening against the armor protecting her skin. It hurt him more than it hurt her, but with the adrenaline in his veins, he didn’t feel it. “Dammit, Hawke!” he cursed, earning himself a pleased smile from the woman. “Please, don’t do this. Not now. This is…” His mouth flapped usually for a few seconds before he hung his head in agony, at a lost for what to say.

It was what? The end? The last goodbye?

While it had been clear from the very first moment he’d laid eyes on her that her heart belonged to the possessed monstrosity that dared to call itself a man, he’d let himself grow attached to her. He’d wanted to save her, to prevent what had happened from happening to her. He’d failed her in that respect, had lost her soul. She’d been light and laughter, goodness and grace, and it would surely be sucked from her now that she had chosen to align herself with an abomination.

The monster would eat her up, take every last piece of her until she was no more. By the time he clashed with her in the not-so-distant future, she would no longer be Hawke, no longer be the brilliant bright star he had found himself gravitating towards. She would be a ghoul, a ghost, a breath, a whisper, a shadow.

“Seb,” she said, her voice cracking as she let her defenses fall away for a brief moment, allowing him to see that she too was suffering. “Don’t blame yourself. This is not your fault. None of it is. This…it would have happened with or without any of us.”

“Perhaps,” he said, finally daring to look her in the eyes again. He saw pain and sadness within her, mixed with understanding at what she knew he had to do and why. She didn’t agree with it of course and she would fight him to save her love’s life, but she understood that he couldn’t go against who and what he was. “But I let it happen. I played a part, as did you. We are both responsible for that. And we will both pay.”

“Is that what this is?” she asked, her striking blue orbs probing his for answers. “Paying?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and then nodded. “Yes.”

“You don’t have to do this,” she said quickly, reaching up to place her hands on his where they rested on her shoulders. She was hopeful, even though he knew that she knew her hope was misplaced. But that was Hawke and he loved her for it. “You could come with us. Stay with us. Help us.”

He shivered, his desires warring with the Maker’s.

“Come with us, Sebastian. There are other ways to atone. No one has to die.”

“I…as much as I’d like to, I cannot. I cannot forgive that…that _thing_ for what he did!” The archer bristled as he spoke, calling up his righteous fury to strengthen his resolve. He had to do this, had to break away from Hawke before she plunged him into the darkness as well. As much as he cared for— _had_ cared for—her, he was not his own man. He had been pledged to the Maker in both body and spirit, an act that he no longer loathed and now celebrated. “He murdered innocents. He _killed_ Elthina. He must be punished. He _will_ be punished.”

Hawke let out a breath and stepped away from him, and he let his hands fall to his sides, clenching into fists.

The Maker had sent Hawke to him for a reason, the reason being that he could finally embrace his destiny with open arms. Starkhaven was his to command and he would do so, except with a clean conscience now because he was doing it for the Maker and his beloved servants. The Maker had sent him Hawke to show him that physical temptations could come in the most beautiful packages, to teach him that the only thing that could be trusted was the Divine Will.

Reality set in around them again, the temporary truce ended once and for all. They were no longer friends, no longer comrades. They were just two enemies on opposite sides of the battlefield.

“I see,” the Champion sighed, deflated and heartbroken. “It must be this way, then?”

He nodded, determination etched into every fiber of his being. “It must.”

“Well then,” she smiled thinly at him, her walls back in place. Sebastian refused to let his gaze leave hers, lest his eyes travel down to the wound in her flesh and he lose his resolution. “Survive and live to fight me. I will be waiting for you, Sebastian Vael. You will not harm a hair on Anders’s head.”

He gave her a grim smile in return. “You shall try, Champion, but you shall fail. If you stand between me and the mage, I _will_ kill you.”


End file.
